#short space story

[mogirl09]

Space Nerd Ahoy!

This is how I imagine a perfect day in Space. I sit down in my captain’s seat and admire the intricately designed interior of the spaceship. Despite the limited space, everything is perfectly arranged for maximum efficiency. The walls and ceilings of the spaceship’s control room are lined with metal panels, and complex instruments, computers, switches, and add-ons protrude from different corners…

[whereserpentswalk]

Humans sometimes wonder what separates them from other races like elves and dwarves and orcs, like what makes them unique. Some people say humans are generalists, some people say we're the most adaptable. But actually there is something that stands out about us that all the other races find super weird. Humans are the only sentient creature to reproduce sexually like animals do, and because of that we're the only species with romantic or sexual attraction, and ideas like sex and gender.

Elves and dwarves create new members of their races slowly and methodically, like works of art. Harpies, angels, demons and dragons are all individually and personally created by their gods. Orcs and goblins are spawned from spawning pits on mass. Merfolk come close with how they lay and fertilize eggs, but even then any individual merfolk can both lay eggs and fertilize, and they don't meet when they do it. Vampires and other undead are spawned from other races. Fae just sort of show up.

So the idea of having sexes, and genders constructed around them, and sexual and romantic relationships is all incredibly weird for other races. Most humans don't notice it because they just naturally assign members of other races genders when they meet them.

Diffrent races have diffrent ideas around these constructs. But most of them find it some level of confusing. A lot of them just ignore it. But it's really disturbing for some, romantic relationships seem like weird bonds that can't be explained, like some sort of unexplainable and volatile connection. Sexual attraction seems like some dark animalistic instinct. Gender is incomprehensible, and also seems wrong and immoral to most races. And sex itself seem like the darkest of any reproductive ritual or magic. Because of all of this humans who don't experience some or any of these things often have an easier time connecting with other races.

This has also lead scholars to belive that humans are the only sentient race to evolve naturally. Something often thought impossible before studies on humans occurred.

[digitalsymbiote]

Disconnect Syndrome

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.

Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.

Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.

An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.

There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.

Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.

It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.

Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.

Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.

--

When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.

It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.

The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.

The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.

There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.

There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.

And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.

The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.

The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.

You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.

The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.

By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.

You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.

You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.

The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.

You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.

She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).

She’s beautiful.

You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.

Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.

Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.

The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.

[lunaiz4-misc]

By the time the humans invented wireless Internet, the aliens had already been monitoring the RF bands on and in the vicinity of Earth for decades. Well, they didn't have decades - that was a human concept - but many full orbits of the little blue planet around its yellow star.

The packet encryption broke easily when subjected to advanced computing techniques, and soon they were able to pick up, decode, and even send information on the "world wide web." Wary of being detected, they were careful to limit their queries, but even a severely restricted ability to actually *ask questions* made the xenoscience division go starry-eyed.

Their excitement was short-lived, however, as the screen displayed a message that chilled them to their cores: "to continue, please prove you are a human."

[marlynnofmany]

It’s back!

If you missed it the first time around, the “human are weird” anthology is back for a second printing. (There’s even a new story included: “Black Box” by Dara Brophy.)

Here’s the blurb:

In science fiction, humans are usually boring compared to other races: small, weak, with no claws or tentacles, and no special abilities to speak of. But what if we were the impressive ones, the unsettling ones, the ones talked about by all the other aliens? What if we're weird?

If you’d like a collection of excellent stories about humans inspiring awe, fear, and utter confusion, it’s available everywhere books are sold!

[technoarcanist]

WAR NEVER CHANGES. BUT,

WARFARE NEVER STOPS CHANGING

"I've seen countless reasons why most mech pilots don't make the cut, but one of the largest hurdles are the physical alterations. The implants and modifications done to the fleshware is so extreme that it's enough to push most would-be pilots away from day 1.

Back in the day, when mech tech was still in its wild west years, when the technology was still in its infancy, things were different. Levers, joysticks, switches, a chair, most of the first models were something between the cockpit of a construction vehicle and a fighter ship.

Pilots in those days still consisted largely of the usual suspects. Test pilots, army jocks, space force veterans looking for something new, the occasional crazy who lucked their way up the ranks. All you needed back then was to be fit enough to work complex machinery. 'Handler's wouldn't be a coined phrase for nearly a decade. I still remember being a kid and seeing repurposed older models in the mech fighting streams.

Everything changed with the Bidirectional Cerebellum Computer Interface. To say nothing of how it changed civilian life, it was a military marvel. The BiCCI saw the creation of Mechs as we understand them today. The first generation were just retrofits, older models with a pilot's chair, and even manual controls to use in an emergency, but even then we knew that was only temporary. Before long, sleek frames of sharp angles, railguns and plasma cannons were rolling off the factory floor.

Like many things, it began small, optimising first for cockpit space by removing the manual controls. Before long, my then-supervisors thought, "Why have this glass? Why not hook the pilot's eyesight right into the advanced multi-spectral camera system? Before long, cockpits were but soft harnesses made to house a living body, their very soul wired into the machinery. Obviously, for security reasons, I cannot tell you everything about how our latest cockpits work, but suffice to say we've been further blurring the line between pilot and frame ever since.

This drew a very different crowd. Out were the army jocks and powerlifters. The only ones who even dared to have the interface hardware installed into their brainstem and spinal cord were the dispossessed, the misanthropes, those who sought not to control their new body, but to be controlled by it. No AI can work a mech properly on its own, but our pilots are never really in full control either anymore. Those who do try to go against the symbiosis get a nosebleed at best, and vegetative seizures at worst.

And that was that. The only people left who pilots these things are those who had already been broken, those who sougt a permenant reprive from being anything resembling human. A lot of my department quit around this time. I've lost a few friends over it, I'm not shy to say. Did we knew we'd be bringing in the more vulnerable people? Of course we did. But, the wheels of progress must turn, as they say, and it wasn't like we were shy of volunteers.

In our latest models, we have refined an even more advanced frame. Again, security detail prevents me from divulging too much, but one breakthrough we've made is decreasing action latency by approximately 0.02s by amputating the limbs from our pilots and replacing them with neural interface pads.

Using the pads where the limbs once were, pilots are screwed directly into the cockpit, which itself can now be 30% smaller thanks to the saved space. And, of course, we provide basic humanoid cybernetics as part of their employment contract while they are with us. Not that most of them are ever voluntarily out of their cockpits long enough to make use of them. Even removing the tubes from their orifices for routine cleaning incurs a large level of resistence.

And, yes, some of them scream, some of them break, some become so catatonic that they might as well be a peripheral processor for their mech's AI. But not a single one, not even one pilot, in all the dolls i've ever trained, have ever accepted the holidays we offer, the retirement packages, the stipends.

As you say, there are those who like to call me a monster for my work. I can see why. After all, they don't see the way my pilots' crotches dribble when I tell them I'll be cutting away their limbs, or the little moans they try to hide when we first meet and I explain that they'd forever be on the same resource level as a machine hereafter.

Those who call me a monster don't realise that, even after going public with how we operate our pilots, even after ramping up mech frame production, we still have more than twice as many volunteers as frames.

Those who call me a monster cannot accept that my pilots are far happier as a piece of meat in a machine of death than as the shell of a human they once were.

Those who call me a monster never consider the world my pilots grew up in to make them suitable candidates in the first place."

-Dr Francine Heathwich EngD

Dept. Cybernetic Technologies @ Dynaframe Industries

[In response to human rights violations accusations levied by the Pilot Rehabilitation Foundation]

[injuries-in-dust]

Captain’s log, number 197.

Well, it finally happened. They warned me it would when I took humans aboard, but I didn’t believe them.

The humans have threatened mutiny over an object they have pack-bonded with.

A few cycles ago, one of the humans placed ... decorative items ... what are they called? “googling eyes?” upon one of the maintanence drones. While against procedure, this seemed to be amusing to the humans and I let them have this bit of enrichment to their environment.

Last cycle another human, or perhaps the same one, I haven’t been able to get a clear answer on who did it, decided to expand upon this decoration with the addition of black bonding tape, cut into shapes the humans find very amusing.

See attached picture for clarity:

In another cycle we will be docking at space-station 114-Hartnell for our annual maintanence and reguation-compliance inspection. I need not say how we must be reguation compliant in order to maintain our trade lisence with the alliance.

This would, of course, include that all maintanence drones are kept up to code. So I ordered the humans to remove the decorations.

... I ...

...I have no words ...

Their reaction.

They named him.

It! I meant to say, they named it.

They stated, and I quote, “You will not touch one hair of Robert Floor-Buffington the third, captain, or there’ll be a problem!” 

They’ve made up stories! Robert Floor-Buffington, he’s a humble, but hard working space bot, who just wants to do right for his a robot wife, and robot children!

It’s a maintanence drone! Identical to the hundred other maintanence drones we have on board.

But the humans they’re insane!

They just will not be moved on this issue.

... Maybe I can pursuade them to just ensure this Robert Floor-Buffington is kept out of the inspectors way. We have a hundred identical models, surely they won’t notice that one is missing?

***Log paused for incoming message***

Captains log addendum.

Perhaps the inspectors will not notice four maintanence drones are missing.

The humans have decided to decorate three other drones and have taken to referring to them as the “wife and two children of Robert-Floor Buffington the third.”

At this time, there is a heated debate occuring in storage bay three over what the names of this robot family will be.

...

...

...

Additional. I have over two-hundred days of shore-leave accrued. I think I’ll be making good use of that in the near future.

[fae-papercuts]

Originally inspired as a response to some posts by @banrionceallach and @marlynnofmany. Polished it up and decided it would make a good start to my lil story blog. Enjoy!

Not Our Usual Passengers

“What do you mean, there’s something wrong with the engines?” Captain El'ek'tak said incredulously. “You’re not an engineer, none of you humans are. You’re not even crew, you’re passengers! How dare you claim there’s something wrong with my vessel!?”

The outraged captain puffed up her air sacks, the feathery amphibian inflating as she stared down the trio of humans who had been travelling with them for the past week. They were not what she had come to expect when transporting humans, not one bit.

They were quiet, for a start. One of them didn’t even speak at all, just made an occasional tuneless humming sound when they were concentrating particularly hard on something. That was usually accompanied by a rocking back and forth that seemed remarkably similar to the Ke'tek autonomic stimulation ritual of focus.

Humans weren’t supposed to do that, were they?

The second of the human party cleared their throat softly - something they always did before speaking, which was quite a rare occurrence. The captain appreciated this, actually. So many humans she had transported interrupted her, or spoke over each other. The disrespect was really quite remarkable - but these humans waited patiently for others to finish, and this particular human’s throat-clearing was used similarly to the way El'ek'tak’s own species rustled their dorsal feathers to indicate their intent to communicate.

“Captain, apologies if we caused any offence,” at this the non-speaking human’s eyes widened in surprise, and they shook their head, clearly agreeing in a profoundly apologetic manner, without words. Their apologetic companion went on, “We can’t be certain there’s something wrong with the ship, we just thought you should know that it sounds wrong.”

The first human spoke again, nodding as they added to their companion’s statement.

“Yes, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to assert certainty when I should have stated a suspicion,” they gave a short smile, then their face quickly fell back into a neutral expression. The captain was a little taken aback by this, as that particular human seemed to very rarely express facially - quite the opposite to what she was used to with humans. It was a little disconcerting, but mostly because she had put a lot of effort into learning about human non-verbal communication.

She blinked, and stared at the three for a long moment. “It sounds wrong?” she repeated back, surprised. She had heard of some particularly sensitive species being able to diagnose certain engine issues from the vibrational frequencies, but usually this required extremely highly trained specialists.

The silent human nodded, and raised a handheld device, tapping something onto its screen for a few moments. The other two humans turned and waited patiently as their friend worked, and the Captain watched with a raised eyebrow (this wasn’t a natural Girurian expression. She had learnt it from her human studies, enjoyed how it felt, and how it could communicate so many things at once).

The human held up the device, and it emitted a gentle, slightly robotic tone, “Engine pitch changed one point five hours ago. Rising quarter octave every seven minutes. Hurt very bad fifty five minutes ago.”

Captain El'ek'tak stared for a moment at the human, her feathers rustling vaguely, as she tried to figure out a response. She looked between all three of them. “You can hear the engines, from your quarters half way across the ship?” she asked incredulously.

The most vocal of the humans spoke, while the throat-clearer nodded and the non-verbal one tapped on their device. “Oh yes,” they said, “we’re all sensitive to sensory input, at least for humans. Not a patch on Alirians sound sensitivity, or Hynoids electromagnetic spectral range, or the scent capabilities of the Teraxids - did you know they can smell a single smoke particulate in a standard atmospheric volume of 500 cubic metres?”

The human with the device gently put a hand on the speaker’s shoulder and smiled softly at their friend - who turned bright red and looked at the floor. “Sorry, xenobiological sensory discrepancies is my special interest right now,” they said, before taking a slight step back. It was at this point that the captain noticed that they were fiddling with a strange cube in their left hand, suddenly speeding up how they manipulated the piece of plastic, changing its configuration rapidly. It was a fascinating display of manual dexterity, and considered asking about it for a moment.

“Engine makes the whole ship vibrate. Can hear it any place,” spoke the little device, for it’s human, interrupting the captain's curiosity. The human’s head rose, making eye contact with El'ek'tak. The human’s gaze was intense - more so than even the other humans the captain had encountered. Eye contact was so rarely a positive thing, across a wide variety of species, but with humans she had met so far it had always been considered important. So the captain had learned to look them in the eyes. It had been a surprise when this group avoided it so much, rarely meeting her gaze for more than a split second. Early in the voyage, they had politely explained that all of them found it hard, and that they hoped she wouldn’t take offence. Frankly, El'ek'tak had been a little relieved, as all the eye contact with others of the odd little species had been quite exhausting.

But right now, the diminutive human who never spoke and could apparently tell when engines changed pitch, was looking into her eyes, and the Captain could practically feel this little traveller’s distress. It made her ankle feathers itch, and she was surprised to find herself understanding quite so much from just a look.

The captain nodded, and broke eye contact. The human looked down again, reverting back to their usual slightly-bowed stance.

“Let me check with engineering,” she said, and turned to the panel by her side, tapping a screen to raise the engine-room. Slipping comfortably into her own language, she greeted the pair of engineering crew on duty, and asked them about the state of the engines, particularly frequency or oscillation-related issues. She gave them the time to check on it, waiting silently, still as a statue, while the humans figeted, or rocked gently side to side. Their motion made her a little uncomfortable, but she had learnt that with these three, continuous movement wasn’t a sign of impatience, as it has been for many previous human passengers.

After a few minutes, the engineers returned to the screen, and exchanged a few explanatory sentences with the Captain, before tapping fingers to their foreheads respectfully. The Captain returned the gesture, and ended the call.

El'ek'tak turned back to the humans, to see that the non-verbal one was already tapping on their device. She couldn’t help but rustle her feathers, wanting to reassure the humans, but not wanting to interrupt this overt preparation for communication. The throat-clearing human raised a finger briefly, a clear request for a moment of time, and the Captain found herself surprised again at how wide a variety of perception these humans could contain within a single species.

“Pitch dropping rapidly. Expect normal range in four minutes. Thank you, captain,” said the device, as the human beamed a broad smile at her for just a brief moment.

El'ek'tak’s feathers rustled briskly, and then she replied. “Yes, that’s alright, thank you for bringing it to our attention,” she said, pausing to gather her wits. “The interphasic array had become slightly misaligned. It wouldn’t have been detected by our sensors for another hour, and then we would have had to pause the engines to manually readjust it. Catching it this early, we could simply vary the input parameters to re-compensate, and bring it back into synchronisation,” she explained, relaying the gratitude of her engineering crew.

The most vocal human flapped their hands back and forth vigorously, grinning with delight. “Oh, thank goodness, I’m so glad we could help, and that the engine noise will at least be consistent. We were worried it would be horrible for the whole trip, and we’d have to reconfigure our ear protection all the time! Genuinely helping out the engineers is so great!”

The captain’s eyes bulged with happiness, quite unable to resist the infectious joy of the gleeful human. “I am glad your trip will be more comfortable, and I will pass on how helpful you were to Central, once we reach our destination.”

The throat-clearing human, who had so consistently noticed the captain’s non-verbal communication, smiled too. They actually chuckled a little as they said, “More neurodiversity stuff to go in The Guide To Interstellar Travel With Humans,” seeming pleasantly amused.

El'ek'tak winced in embarrassment. She had already sent in three amendments to the guide regarding natural variations in human cognitive capabilities and behavioural norms since they had left Alpha Centauri, the two weeks of travel offering surprise after surprise from these passengers. But as far as she knew, the guide wasn’t acknowledged by humans - she didn’t even know the species was aware of the now rather sizeable volume of collected knowledge. It certainly wasn’t available in any human languages that she knew of - after all, what would be the point?

The human’s chuckle became gentler, and the other vocal one of the group raised a hand in an extremely close mimic of the Girurian comforting gesture - as close as could be with the wrong number of digits, anyway. The Captain couldn’t help but relax, the effort the human put into the gesture only adding to the positive impact. They flashed another brief smile as their companion explained, “Don’t worry captain. Most of us don’t bother with it, but I find it fascinating. It has been wonderful seeing the updates since our trip began. Please, the more human neurodivergency is documented, the easier space travel can be for people like us.”

There were a few more polite exchanges, during which the captain learned  that the strange device she had notice was an 'infinity cube,' which was apparently a kind of 'fidget toy.' Then the humans left her ready room; a quiet, somewhat surreal collection of beings who had rather put a lie to the notion that humans were uniformly capable of being brash and difficult to deal with.

But they certainly didn’t do anything to diminish the captain’s view of humanity as a species eternally full of surprises.

[welcometogrouchland]

I understand that literature nerd Jason Todd is kind of overblown in fanon compared to it's actual presence in canon (a few issues during his pre (and post?)crisis Robin tenure that highlight it) BUT consider that I think it's hilarious if the unhinged gun toting criminal has strong opinions on poetry

[patchworkcuddlebug]

The Rain Storm

God, please, somebody open.

Your car stalled out about a mile back. You swear it's raining hard enough to have flooded the engine. You tried waiting by your car, to hitchhike or borrow a toolbox or find someone with cell service, but hours passed with nothing but the rain keeping you company.

This was the only house you passed for miles on this backwater forest-dense road, paved with loose gravel and prayers. You don't know how you even got here. Slowly, the highway, your highway, began to shift into something less and less familiar. You must've missed your turn.

Finally, someone opens the door. The young woman is surprised to see you, and quickly ushers you inside. She takes your coat and asks you kindly to sit on the couch, saying she'll inform a "Miss" that you've arrived. You don't care for her word choice.

The manor is extravagant. The walls are aged, but thick and sturdy enough to last many lifetimes more. The rug has a pattern too ornate to make out in the darkness, and every piece of furniture seems like a precious heirloom.

"So, you'll be our little visitor, then?"

A woman... no, something more. She's otherworldly. Her face looks sculpted from marble by the most talented visionaries, but her skin looked as soft as silk. Her hair flowing down her shoulders like a river from a mountain, perfectly framing her lovely silhouette. And her voice, lord above her voice, it was an orchestra, a distillation of beauty, every husky syllable like a kiss from a rose.

You somehow answer her.

"Well, aren't you a dear. Rosemary, refreshments."

There were two other women by her side, one now scurrying off into another room. The other brings over a large comforter, which it unfolds and places around you in a single swift act of elegance.

The lady sits in a loveseat across the coffee table. She asks you how you managed to find this neck of the woods. Where you where going before you did. How well the job is going, if your coworkers treat you well. Friends, hobbies, sex life. It doesn't occur to you that you can refuse her. She seems so radiant, her inquisitions so genuine and thoughtful, that the prospect of denying her seems too disrespectful.

The girl from earlier returns, and your eyes are caught by everything on her tray. It's your absolute favourite, the epitome of comfort food. If you were on death row, this would be your final meal. What a coincidence.

You thank the maid and immediately dig in. The lady seems fit to observe you in silence as you enjoy your meal. With the last of it gone, the maid returns and collects the tray.

Maybe it was the light. Surely, it must have been. At first you figure it was an eccentricity of her uniform, before you notice how abruptly the sleeves end, much earlier. Perhaps it's some sort of disability, but you can't imagine how she'd work in such a profession if that were the case.

"Is something bothering you, dear?"

You muster the courage to ask about her maid, only after she's returned to the kitchen, hopefully out of earshot.

"I can't say I know what you're talking about, dear. You've had a long night, surely you must be seeing things. Perhaps it's time for you to get some rest. I'll have you shown to your arrangements."

Another maid emerges. She's the same as the other one. She may not be identical, with differences in the hair and minor ones in the face, but they still look like variations of the same toy.

She leads you to your room. You have plenty of time to analyze her now. There's something artificial about her. Something off about the texture of her skin, the way it doesn't seem to catch the light quite how it should. Her movements are unnatural, like something prerecorded and edited. It's too even, too smooth, and much too stiff.

And then there's... the joints. She doesn't have elbows. She doesn't have them, not nearly the same way you do. Her bicep and forearm simply stop at a point of connection. It seems manufactured, unnaturally round, with lines where she's allowed movement.

You hesitate once you reach your door. You tell the maid you want to ask her something. She bows respectfully, saying you are allowed one question before she returns to her duties. You ask her what's wrong with her body, worded inelegantly from a night of exhaustion and confusion.

The maid bows respectfully. "There's nothing wrong with this one's body."

. . . . .

You're woken by knocking.

You allow the maids to enter your room. The serene morning sunlight gently pours into the room as they greet you, offering to help you prepare yourself for breakfast. You refuse and politely ask them to provide you some privacy, to which they happily comply.

Your body feels stiff as you pull yourself out of bed. There's a soft crack whenever you struggle to bend and stretch.

Your clothes have been washed, dried, and folded for you through the night. They feel even softer than they did when you first bought them.

You finish as much of your routine as you comfortably can in a stranger's house before leaving the dormitory, making your way to where you remember the kitchen to be. It's eerily quiet, with only your footsteps to hear.

The dining table is long, with the lady sitting at the furthest end, illuminated by the morning sunlight. She is surrounded by empty chairs, and a collection of maids standing at the ready against the walls of the room.

"How nice of you to stay for breakfast, darling. You wouldn't want to miss it for the world."

A row of maids emerge from the connected kitchen, all carrying a hot plate of food. They place each one in front of you; pancakes with syrup, waffles with fresh fruit, scrambled eggs with a side of bacon cooked to perfection, golden hash browns, french toast with butter still melting, and a smoothie and a coffee to drink

All the plates are placed in front of you. The lady only has a mug of fresh tea.

You choose a food at random to pick at, not feeling very hungry. You want to strike up a conversation with the lady, eager to ease your mind, but it only now occurs to you that you never exchanged names. You apologize for this and ask for hers.

"Oh, don't worry about a detail like that." She gave a carefree smile as she shook her head. "If you simply must use something for me... I suppose Miss will work for you."

Miss. That fits in place in your brain more naturally than it should.

You've barely touched all the extravagant food before you start to feel satiated. "It's okay if you're not feeling hungry." Says Miss. "Don't worry about the waste. I promise it'll be eaten."

You thank her, believing her, as the maids begin to collect the plates. As one steps behind you, reaching around to grab the pancakes, you try to get her attention and ask if-

"The maids don't like to be bothered when they're working, dear." Miss chimes, almost playfully. "But please, ask me whatever you like."

You ask her if she comes from money, commenting on how many maids she has. She looks to the side, thinking for only a moment. "My... darlings aren't concerned about something as silly as money. Service is their purpose."

You ask her to elaborate. Lightning strikes, audible even over the sound of the rain storm crashing against the windows.

"Oh, what a mess. Seems like you'll have to stay another night. Don't worry, we don't mind the extra company."

You excuse yourself to the bathroom.

It's untouched. It's kept in spotless condition just as the rest of the house is, but the toilet paper that hangs from the roll is fresh out of the package, and the plastic for the hand soap on the sink is the only thing in the trash can.

You flush the toilet and leave, hovering off to the side across the hall. Within seconds, a maid wanders in to clean. You politely stop her, desperation clear in your voice as you ask if she's human.

The maid bows respectfully. "Not anymore."

You make a break for it.

You open the front door, only for a sudden burst of wind to blow you backwards, slamming the door shut in front of you. If you were of sound mind, you may have noticed the decorations were all still in their place, as if such a harsh wind didn't blow at all.

You stumble backwards, your mind racing, before you bump into her. She's tall enough to rest her elbows on your shoulders.

"I know you must be so worried about your life, dear. You must have people waiting for you, a place in society that you have to act out... but you don't have to worry much longer. I'll take care of everything for you. Would you care to follow me?"

Of course you follow her. You're terrified of what could happen if you don't. Your body moves on its own. It must be the fear, surely.

Miss guides you to a room you don't recognize. It's an uncanny cross between a dentist's office and a mechanic's workshop, each schema just barely wrong enough.

She gestures to the structure in the middle. It's an operating table. "Go on cutie, you know what to do."

With as much apprehension as you can afford to muster, you do as Miss says. You climb onto the table, laying down with your hands resting on your torso. You try to ask what she's going to do to you, but she interrupts you with a hand cupping your cheek.

"I'm going to make you mine."

. . . . .

This one holds the warmed leftovers out on the tip of its hand. Miss's treasured carnivorous plant feels it with the tip of its mouth, expertly taking small chomps until it reaches this one's fingers, stopping just as the meat does.

This doll feels an emptiness dissipate through its body, a reward for a job well done. It feels just a little less like a person, its old life being lifted off its shoulders and taken further and further away.

It begins to walk towards its next task. Its movements are exactly what they need to be, elegant and intentional. A pretty doll for Miss.

Just as it returns to the manor, the rain begins. It starts slow, convincing, picking up ever so slowly into a storm.

After a long, pleasant moment of stillness, this one hears knocking. It waits, convincing, just as it was told. The doll is surprised to see its guest, and quickly ushers them inside. It takes their coat and asks them kindly to sit on the couch, saying it'll inform a "Miss" that they've arrived.

The guest doesn't care for her word choice.

[deathworlders-of-e24]

Liz, Biotechnician

Part 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You’re sure it was my codes, sir?”

Liz stood in front of the 3 highest ranking officers on board the Noah: the bipedal insectoid Captain Skitch, the First Officer, a woman from the Doun race named Koatil, and Security Chief Ducane. She’d been called to the captain’s office before the cycle’s shift had even started.

“We’re sure,” Captain Skitch chittered, his short mandibles moving, “but we’re also sure it wasn’t you.”

“I don’t follow,” Liz said. Sitting in the chair across from these three was making her nervous. Like there was an alarm in her head screeching out LAST CHANCE LAST CHANCE LAST CHANCE in Admiral Townes voice. It’s not like she’d been dissecting other crew members like other humans on the ship, so she wasn’t sure how or why this was happening.

“Let me be perfectly clear here Elizabeth, you’re not in any trouble, but several times in the last few weeks, someone has been using division head codes to send encrypted long distance communications.”

Commander Koatil leaned against the wall, her thermal suit clunking and rumbling. Liz had always wondered how the thing didn’t get clogged with Doun fur all the time, but now wasn’t the time to ask. Especially not with Koatil’s horns looking so sharp at the moment.

“At the times in question, you were usually at your work station or in the mess hall. Chief Ducane here assures us your… what did you call it Ducane?”

“Body language, Commander.”

“Right, that. He assures us you couldn’t be behind it. You’re too ‘relaxed’ to be conspiring against the rest of the crew.”

They’ve been watching me? Conspiring against the crew? Liz thought, trying to swallow but her mouth had just dried up like the desert world Apam 2. Hopefully they hadn’t seen what had happened to Coco, or if they did, it wouldn’t get them fired. Liz had to get them to stop eating so much chocolate. Problems for later. The idea of a traitor among the crew was almost an afterthought to her. Almost.

“So do you know who it is?” She asked.

“That’s classified,” Ducane said.

So you don’t know, she figured.

“It’s been…,” the chief continued, “let’s say, brought to the ship command’s attention that some rather odd occurrences have gotten overlooked, so I’ve given Chief Ducane the all clear to begin an official investigation. Can you think of anyone who’d have access to your work station or your personal space?”

Liz shook her head silently. The black ball cap she’d always seen him wearing was backwards, and he donned his ‘tool belt’, sporting an Earthly ballistic pistol and a stun baton. Danny looked at her a second longer before leaning against the desk, looking pensive.

“Naturally, if you speak of this to anyone, you’ll not only be expelled from the ship, you’ll probably end up court-martialed back on Earth,” Skitch said, dead pan. “The only reason you’re being informed is because you were involved, however slightly it was.”

Liz looked around at the three of them. Even if she wasn’t in trouble yet, she thought about the conversation she’d had just yesterday with Thomas and Jane. If anyone had overheard them, even just a little, and they told Bridge Command, that was it. She’d be finished.

God damn it Thomas.

She could already hear her Uncle Edd, AKA Admiral Townes, AKA the man in charge of her current job, as well as the whole ship, telling her how irresponsible it was to leave her access codes on a sticky note by her computer. There wasn’t a universe out there where he didn’t already know about this. Every cell in her body wanted nothing else but to avoid that stern and disappointed lecture she’d heard a thousand times before, the reminders that while she might be the brightest mind in the family she was also the most thoughtless. Another screw up and he couldn’t bail her out again. Another screw up and she could kiss her position goodbye: no more science division head, no more personal lab, no more Noah-

-no more Coco-

The thought burst into her brain like a super nova. She’d finally made a friend, a real friend, someone she connected with in the lab and out, and the thought of losing that scared her more than she thought it would, way more than she’d be willing to admit. No, she had to fix this, now. The conversation she had with Thomas the previous cycle came back like an after flare, and so she did the only thing she could think of.

“Beep…?” she said, looking to Danny, trying desperately to signal to the security chief that yeah, I’ve already talked to Thomas, I know about your office, I know about a lot of stuff! You gotta help me out here, human to human!

The chief stared at her a moment, a puzzled look stuck on his face. Liz gripped the arms of her chair so hard her knuckles turned white. Exasperated she tried again.

“Beep!”

“Are you alright ensign?” The captain asked, looking from her to the only other human in the room, probably looking for a hint about this new strange Earthling behavior. Liz just kept looking at the security chief, and watched as realization bloomed behind his eyes.

Ducane strode over to her, and Liz noticed for the first time he had a scar under his chin, a thin line going up his jaw. In the back of her mind she wondered how he’d gotten it.

“Now, ensign,” Ducane half rumbled as he towered over her, “I’m going to escort you back to your work station, where you’ll not discuss this with anyone else, understood?”

“Understood… sir,” she added hastily.

As the two terrans excused themselves, Liz’ translator just barely picked it up.

“Those humans are weird,” from Commander Koatil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Talk. Now.”

They’d made it down the hallway in silence, Ducane in the lead. The moment the lift doors closed he’d begun the interrogation.

Liz realized then just how much the man’s frame eclipsed hers, he was like four of her put together and force fed an all protein powder diet. She was like a pencil in comparison to a tree trunk. So in response, she straightened her back to her full height and tried to stand her ground.

“Look dude, this isn’t my fault, you told Thomas all that stuff, and he blabbed yesterday to us-”

“Us? Who’s us?!” Danny cut her off, a pained look on his face. “What is the matter with you kids? Are you all trying to give me an ulcer here?”

“Who the hell are you calling kids, I’m twenty eight!”

“And I’m almost forty,” he sighed, “and at this rate you actual children will kill me before I hit the big four zero.” Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Elizabeth. Liz. Please. Just tell me what he told you and…?”

“Jane, from medical.”

“God damnit Thomas.”

“Tell me about it, right? I’m gonna get canned just ‘cause I know stuff. That’s my whole job dude, to know stuff.”

“Please-”

“Yeah, yeah,” she cut him off, before explaining the conversation the three of them had had the day before in the mess hall.

“Fuuuuck me,” was all he said in turn.

“Why’d you even tell Bridge Command you’re looking for a saboteur on the ship?” Liz asked.

“Why? Because it’s my job, that’s why. This isn’t some little mystery holo show back on Earth, these are real stakes here Liz, real people who could get hurt or worse if this goes bad. So yeah, of fucking course I told the captain! It’s just you kids running around behind my back that are screwing shit up for me right now. If this gets out, the whole experiment is going to be canceled, we’ll all be fired, probably imprisoned, and the whole human god damn race is gonna have cosmic egg on its face right from the jump for a whole galactic audience to see.”

Liz just stared at him, watching the escalation.

“Oh,” is all she said.

The lift doors opened.

“Look,” Ducane took a deep, hopefully calming breath, “if you three just keep your mouths shut and let me do my job, everything is gonna be fine. GAIL Command won’t think anyone is colluding, they won’t even find out until we have something to say, and the ship can keep going on its merry way. Alright?”

“Alright,” Liz said.

And she really did want to mean it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Human Friend Liz!” Coco’s voice synthesizer exclaimed, unusually excited for a creature with no adrenal gland. “You remember the moon where you lost your arm, yes?”

“Yeah, that was the kind of thing you remember hon,” Liz said, flexing her cybernetic fingers. She hung her coat across the back of her chair. “What about it?”

“Well I was thinking, why didn’t your plasma pistol ignite the air around us? The atmospheric makeup was 95% methane if you recall.”

“Weren’t you releasing oxygen from your branches? That’s why I didn’t suffocate after my mask broke.”

“Yes, correct, but not at a rate that could stave off an ignition. I’ve been rechecking the data, and it appears there was a steady stream of oxygen pouring out from the cave mouth. Perhaps there is some sort of generator, most likely botanical in nature, under the surface to offset the methane in some places.”

“Oh,” Liz said, “well then I’m really glad all we lost down there was my arm. Getting blown up isn’t great, I’m told.”

Coco was standing in their pot, using their branches to tick and tap buttons on their tablet. In their wall cubby enclosure, the Armeaters were ‘sunbathing’ under a heat lamp. A pile of chicken bones in the corner told Liz they’d eaten their lunch without issue. She reached her cybernetic arm over the lip of the tank and scratched one under its snout.

“Remind me, when is the zoological team coming to pick up these guys?”

“Based on their rate of growth,” Coco began, “we’ll have some time before they arrive. Around midpoint of the mission, at the earliest I was told.”

Coco turned their wall computer to face the human.

“Look at this data. I believe these creatures have a rather slow growth period during their first few stages of life, then have rather explosive growth spurts into adult hood.”

“That’s so weird,” Liz said, puzzled. “I mean I guess I’m biased, but most Earth creatures come out ready to go, especially outta eggs. Like sure they’re small, but they don’t stay that way for long.”

“Maybe they’re similar to the Soolian species in the Miriam Basin on Trigor. That species generates a growth hormone from the vegetation they eat,” she continued. “We might just have to take them back to the moon.”

“There is still much we do not know about their habitat. Another expedition to MX13 would be very informative.”

“Yup. Sure would.” Liz flexed her fingers, first the flesh and bone set, then the metal. “Maybe send the drones first though.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Coco turned their tablet back into the wall and continued their work. “Sorry, I had forgotten. When one of my species loses a branch, it will eventually grow back.”

“Lucky you,” Liz said dryly, scritching one of the little aliens between the eyes. It wriggled contently and rolled over. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it was just my arm, and now I’m really glad we didn’t both get blown to hell, but I’m pretty fucking pissed I lost my arm. The new one is cool and all, but it does kinda suck in comparison to the real thing.”

“I am… incapable of understanding the feeling,” Coco said slowly, “but I am sorry that my friend human is upset. If you need anything of me, I will do my best to oblige you.”

“Thanks hon, I really appreciate that.”

Liz sat quietly for a few minutes, listening to the tip tap tap of Coco’s computer typing vines. She wasn’t even really working, more just sitting and breathing and existing, contemplating. Thinking about her arm somewhere, wondering if she could somehow make it shoot the bird to the universe for stealing it.

Wondering if she could or even should tell her best friend on the ship about the possibility of a saboteur. She reasoned that, no, no she shouldn’t. It’d be like… knowingly passing on a contagious virus. Something she didn’t want her friend to catch. Problems they didn’t have to endure if she could just keep her mouth shut.

She found herself thinking about her previous posting onboard the Herald, and the supervising officer who’d contracted the zeno-sporic infection. Hank was his name, if she remembered correctly.

Giant douche canoe filled with fungus, she thought.

He’d completely disregarded the safety briefing she’d made for the landing on Zenos 3, a highly dangerous planetoid in the sector they’d been assigned. Totally ignored the proper instructions and personal protective devices, and came into contact with an incredibly aggressive species of fungus that rooted in his lungs when he’d inhaled them.

Then the dipshit brought them back on the ship without going into quarantine! Who does that?!

Morons. That’s who.

She’d thought he’d looked a little off on the shuttle back, and hours later in the mess hall she’d seen him hacking up spore laced sludge into the waste bins. Luz hadn’t hesitated after that, she’d stunned him with her sidearm and licked him in the sterilization pod. After several hours of gassing him and the spores, he was clean enough to come out, and after another few hours-

-had to be sure you know?-

-she let him out, all safe and clean, totally spore free.

During that time, watching him thrash around in the pod while the spores made their way through his system and into his brain, trying to evade the gas, she’d learned something, something that’d stuck with her since.

Liz had learned that you can’t wait for people to do the right thing. You do it yourself.

She hadn’t waited for Officer Moron to get himself cleaned.

She hadn’t waited for that asshole Grite to save Coco on MX13.

She wasn’t going to wait for Ducane and Bridge Command to find the saboteur and save the mission.

She looked over at her workstation and saw the sticky note stuck there with her codes on it. Liz reached her cybernetic arm over and plucked it from the screen, crumpled it up, and dropped it in the Armeater tank. The largest of the three perked up and pounced on it, like it was a new toy, and shredded it with their newborn needle teeth.

“Time to get to work,” she said quietly.

In their pot in the corner, Coco gave an involuntary shiver of apprehension. Friend Human Liz was exhibiting predator again. They were just thankful for the pack bonding relationship they shared, because otherwise, the Sprygan would be terrified.

[frickityfrackityfuckingshit]

Listen I LOVE the humans are space orcs thing, but imagine.

Humans are space crabs.

Like sure, there’s some really different looking aliens out there, with different ways of communicating and reproducing and stuff. But like. Being a human is just generally a good way to become the intelligent species on a planet. There are just human-like things everywhere.

“Our ship has 3 humans and 5 kraleex” Hendt reminded the human, Jane.

“What? No the ship has 2 humans, 2 splaids, 3 kraleex, and a loktad.”

“Agh, you all seem to tell each other apart but you look the same to me.”

“Kristopher is literally ORANGE AND 7 FEET TALL.”

“You’re beige. And Lance is uhhh.” He paused as he rooted around for the human sweet in his head. “Caramel. That’s practically orange.”

“Seriously humanity had some fucked up shit going on, you’ll probably offend Kristopher if you call him a human to his face.”

“Didn’t you convergently evolve?”

Jane sighed.

“Yeah but like- humans are pretty naturally aggressive. Loktads are quite peaceful, that’s why they took so much less time than us to advance. He’ll see it as an insult.”

Handt shifted uncomfortably.

“Humans are very useful in difficult situations. Despite your size and lacking in physical strength many of you have great problem solving skills. Your roots are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah because compared to other pentadactyly we were very distrustful of our own species and formed smaller groups. We had to be stronger as individuals.” Jane was starting to get a bit frustrated about giving this history lesson. Handt should have been given a briefing on human-like species, but the Strokt were know for their ability to pick up on skills, not knowledge.

Thankfully, they nodded slowly.

“I will refrain from calling Kristopher a human. I can see how this may hurt him.”

Jane let out a breathe of relief when he retreated. She couldn’t even remember the original argument. But at least Handt would now be less likely to offend one of their crew mates.

[whereserpentswalk]

Every starship always has a few ice people on board. It's just standard safety protocol. The minimum number is three, one ice person for defense, one ice person for repairs, and one ice person for medical.

Ice people are people who are put into suspended animation for the duration of a trip, only to be taken out in emergencies. They're useful because a ship won't have to deal with another passenger just for something that won't useally happen. It also makes it so that the ice person is the least likely to be harmed in emergencies. They used to use robots for these sorts of things but now that the robots have unionized biological life is cheaper for that kind of labor.

It's a pretty nice job. Nine times out of ten it's falling asleep and waking up a few months later. Doing it once or twice can pay off your college debts pretty quickly. Compared to the other jobs you'll get with that kind of skillset it's a pretty good deal. Most medical students are encouraged to take it as their first job to pay off their student loans.

Of course, there is a weirdness to it, not existing for such a long time. Even a few months will make the way things change weird. You'll come back to your home planet and things will be diffrent. A freind will have gotten married. A child that you're used to being a baby will be a toddler. Someone will have moved away. It's not all bad, hype for movies or video games, arguments that need time to calm down, skipping out on a bad time in politics. But still, it always makes you a bit separate from everything else.

Of course, there is always the fear suspended animation won't work as intended, and your mind will be trapped dreaming, or worse, conscious, during the entire affair. Perhaps things will that lurk in hyperspace will begin to speak to you. Or worse you'll just be alone, with nothing but your thoughts, and no way to cry out.

But that's not the worst of it, at least not for most people. For most people it's the much more mundane reality of needing to be an ice person for more than just one or two trips. You'll fall asleep and wake up months later, ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred times. And you'll find yourself only seeing the world through snapshots, really only having your other ice people to relate to. You'll be from a diffrent time as everyone the same age as you. It's better pay then any alternative, but there is a greater cost. Soon enough you'll be walking through your homeworld and it'll be alien to you, decades in the future from what you were raised to be in, you'll be wearing a diffrent eras clothing, speaking in a dead dialect, like a ghost from the past.

There was a young engineer who recently returned from being an ice person. Poor thing, she was sent out on an ambassador ship to an alien system thinking it would be about six months, but it turned out she was gone for decades as a war between that ship's nation and the alien homeworld broke out. When she came back all three of her spouses had died of old age, and her son who was an infant when she left was older than her when she returned, and her grandchildren she had never met were her peers.

[ria-starstruck]

and also "putting everyone in a simulation will make it all ok 👍" and also "let's park next to this random system's sun" and also "we can't live on our own planet because of our own folly" and so on

[lunaiz4-misc]

Baubles

"Human, what is the purpose of the head covering you are wearing?"

"This? It's a hat, it keeps my head warm."

"Yes, I understand that, but why does it have a ball of strings on the top?"

"Oh, that? It's called a bauble, or a pom-pom. They're mainly used for decoration, but I've heard they originated with sailors, who used them as a sort of sensory extension so they'd know when they were about to hit their heads."

"That is BRILLIANT. Can you show me how to make one?"

"You knit?"

"Sure! Loads of us do! Knitting is one of the most basic ways of turning fiber into cloth, most sapient species have something like it. Show me how to make this 'bauble.'"

*a few weeks later*

"Do you like it?"

"Um... yeah, it's great. You really like baubles, huh?"

"I love them. I posted a tutorial video online, it's well on its way to being the new fashion."

"That's... great bud. Good for you."

[creepyclothdoll]

There's this thrift store at the old strip mall up the highway.

You go to the earrings first. You love earrings, but you’re always losing them.

This place has most of them in a wicker basket up by the register, but there’s more on a rack nearby and some of the fancier stuff is behind the glass under the table. But who goes for the “fancy” stuff at a thrift store? Thrift is the point. These earrings, the ones in the wicker basket, are stuck through blank, white cardboard squares with neon price stickers. 

All of them are under $10, lots under $5. You rifle through them, registering at first only that the colors and styles are very pleasing to you. Your favorite colors. The right size. Then the familiarity sets in. You are struck by a weird, uncanny feeling, which you don’t immediately place. Your body reacts to the surprise before your brain even has a chance to register what it is.

These are your earrings. Not all of them, but lots of them. Here’s a pair you bought from a different thrift store during your first year of college, gaudy wooden hippie-ish disks with flowers painted on– old and tacky, but you felt like you were cool enough to make them work– which you lost when you moved out of your dorm. Here’s a pair you lost in your last apartment, which you didn’t even realize you hadn’t seen around for the last two years– two fairly pricey and elegant-looking sapphires that your parents got for your 30th birthday, when you got promoted to Marketing Specialist. Here’s a pair you forgot you ever owned until now– some dangly red stacked beads that you wore for one Florida vacation in 2011 and then never again. Because you probably left them on the plane. 

“These are all mine,” you say out loud. You can see your reflection in the slim mirror built into the rotating sunglasses display. The earrings you are wearing today are a completely different style– the sort that a Marketing Specialist wears on the weekends, still arty but much more subtle than the sort you wore back then. That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t wear these dangly red things now. You just… don’t, really.  

“Oh, that’s interesting,” says the employee. She is short and dark-haired and named Beth. She is reading a paperback at the check-out and ignoring you. 

You look at the price tag for the sapphires. $15.99. That’s a steal. 

But they’re mine, you think. I shouldn’t have to pay fucking money for these. They’re mine.

Your eyes drift down under the mirror to the sunglasses rack. The first pair there is child-sized, with a blue frame that has a faded Little Mermaid logo on it. You recognize the sunglasses from a photograph of yourself when you were a child at Valley Fair that was pasted to your mom’s fridge for the longest time. They’re $2.99. 

In the “fancy things” area under the glass, you see an old, heavy camera. Could that be the one your grandma made you bring to high school for show-and-tell, the priceless antique World War II era camera, which went missing after you left it overnight? You got in so much trouble for losing that thing, even though you never wanted to bring it to begin with. It’s only $500. You have to buy it. There’s also a tote bag with your old work logo plastered on it which, you know, is packed full of cannabis. You decided to stock up during a trip to Canada because you didn’t know anyone who sold it while you were living in North Dakota, making ends meet while you tried (and failed) to get scholarships to animation schools. You never got to use any of it, though, because that bag got shoved under a seat in your car when you were crossing the border and you just sort of didn’t retrieve it for long enough that, eventually, you forgot you had it, and by the time you remembered, you couldn’t find it again. 

How did it get here?

There’s a deck of gen 1 Pokemon cards that you took to the park one day in 2000 and left on a slide. You’re sure you had some back then that would be really, really valuable now. 

“These are all mine,” you say. “Can I have them back? They were mine originally, I mean. I didn’t give them up on purpose and I don’t know how they got here.”

“You can’t just take things,” Beth says. “But yeah, if you want to buy them, you can have them.”

“But they’re mine. That’s my grandpa’s World War II camera. I lost it in ninth grade and I feel terrible about that.”

“It’s $500,” Beth says, pointing to the sign. You sigh and pull out my credit card. But then you see the rack of jackets. Among them, you see a terribly familiar jean jacket. 

“That’s my mom’s!” you shout excitedly. You run over to it and pull it off the rack. It’s a 1980’s Levi’s jean jacket that she saved up all her money to buy. She wore it everywhere, and kept it for decades until she could pass it on to her daughter. You had it for two months. You loved that jacket. It symbolized your mom’s trust in you. And it made you feel cool. You were in middle school, and being cool was very important, and you got a lot of compliments on it. Then one day, you went with your little brother to the park, and it was hot out, so you took it off and left it on a bench. When you went home, you weren’t wearing it anymore. But you didn’t realize it was gone until your mom asked why you hadn’t worn it in awhile. The fact that you were so careless as to lose something so important to her broke her heart. You used to search the closets in your house compulsively, hoping it might just turn up one day, and your mom would forgive you. But it never turned up. You checked that park bench, too, every time you went to that park for the rest of your life. The jacket never returned, of course. 

But now, here it is, on this rack. 

If you’re going to take anything back from this place, you know it should be this. 

And then you see grandma’s quilt. 

It’s draped and pinched with clothespins on a different rack, with the tablecloths and scrap fabric. 

Your grandma made you this quilt when you graduated college. It has her handwriting on the corner and the year she made it– 2014. She spent months making this in your favorite colors, picking out fabrics she thought you would like. She knew you really well. You loved that quilt. 

Three years ago, you took it to the laundromat. You set it on a table while you did the rest of your laundry first, so you could cold-wash it separately. But then, a crazy guy came in, yelling and acting all erratic, and it was night and you were the only other person in there, and he kept asking to buy your hair, and you rushed out of there with your wet laundry dripping. You forgot about the quilt until the rest of your blankets finished drying on your apartment banister two days later. You called the laundromat and they didn’t have it. Last winter, your grandma passed. 

You grab the jean jacket and beeline for the quilt, adding it to your pile. 

Two of your old pillowcases are on the rack too— you didn’t even realize those had been folded up with the quilt the day you lost it.

In the children’s toy section, you see your favorite stuffed raccoon, Dorothy. You haven’t seen her for years. She used to go on lots of adventures with you and your brother. You don’t remember losing her, but now you realize that yes, she– and all these other stuffed animals– are lost. Somewhere along the line, you saw them for the last time. 

A scarf you wore in tenth grade. A pair of pants that don’t fit you anymore. A snowglobe with a picture of your middle school friends in it. A nice sports bra you got from a hiking gear store when you thought you were going to get fit four years ago. A piggy bank shaped like Spongebob. Dozens of Goosebumps books. A decorative halloween skeleton. A purple sweater that you forgot was your favorite.

You grab all these things and add them to the growing pile in your arms. 

What am I gonna do with this piggy bank? You ask yourself. But then you remind yourself that it’s yours. It doesn’t matter what you do with it! It’s just supposed to be yours!

The worst thing is that you don’t remember the loss of most of these things. You never grieved them. They mostly just slipped away quietly, and you moved on. You stopped buying scarves that looked like that because your favorite color changed and you sort of realized you didn’t really like scarves that much. But that doesn’t mean you don’t want it back. 

That scarf reminds you of the time you wore it to homecoming. A crisp autumn day that was made better by a good hot dog and worse by Rachel and Drew making out on the bleachers in front of you. You were happy that day. Not about homecoming– you lost the game, not that you cared much, but because of the weather, and your friends, and the hot dog, and because you didn’t know to be depressed yet. 

You want it back. 

You want it all back.

You take the scarf. You take the toys. You take everything. You take the christmas ornaments and the ukulele and rope strings of necklaces over your arms and purses over your shoulders. You take printed mugs, good water bottles, old halloween masks, trophies you won in elementary school, your second prom dress (the one with the glitter), happy birthday cards from relatives who died when you were little (they loved the little you! You were so loveable), a jello mould in the shape of a chicken you bought as a joke with your first real girlfriend (wish it ended different), a pair of ladybug-print rain boots you left outside when you were three, VHS family movies from the late 90’s, a phone you dropped in a lake, an old tamagotchi you also dropped in a lake, a book of self-portraits you did as a series in college (you look nothing like her now but you still want it), your old journal filled with comics (remember when you wanted to be a cartoonist?), your old skateboard (remember how you used to play?).

It’s the little trinkets, the things you don’t even think you liked very much, but which maybe you could have made better use of, that you want back the most. You aren’t done with those things. Unfinished, all of them. 

In a stack of blue bins against a wall are a thousand little things you drew or wrote over the course of your childhood– gifts to your parents, homework you never turned in, little stories about your friends, drawings of your grandma. Some of it is still pretty funny (remember when you wanted to be a comedian?). Animation cells that you made and stored away in the basement when you were telling yourself your scholarship hunt was just “on pause” (these ideas are still good, you can still use them!) What the hell are these things doing here? How dare these people?

“Excuse me, ma’m,” Beth says, only now looking up from her paperback– which you now realize is also yours– with a mix of irritation and deep concern. You spin around, covered head-to-toe in your things. 

“What?!” You snap. You are wrapped in the quilt, draped in ribbons and purses and medals and sweaters and scarves of all shades from all eras of your life. You look like a giant slug made of closet debris. 

“There’s no way you’re gonna buy all that,” Beth says. 

“Like hell I am!” You shout. “I shouldn’t have to buy any of it! It’s all mine, and I want it back!”

A little orange plastic treasure chest with two of your baby teeth inside– you used to be so little, so innocent. Your Girl Scout sash– you had so many friends. The orange yo-yo you got at a carnival when you were one– the first thing you consciously remember losing, remember how sad you were? A note you wrote to yourself with a funny song lyric on it last thursday (you might record it someday). A Mickey Mouse photo frame of you with your best friend Anna in elementary school (you loved her so much, why don’t you talk to her anymore?). 

“I want it all back,” you say again and again. 

There was a version of you who wore the red bead earrings. There was a version of you who played with the stuffed raccoon with your brother. There was a version of you who appreciated those nice sapphires. There was a version of you who was happy in a scarf at homecoming. There were versions of you with more friends, versions with fewer troubles, versions that were thinner and stronger and healthier and younger, versions that had all sorts of dreams and visions for the future, versions that strived for completely different things than you strive for now.

You can still have them back.

You pull the sunglasses display over, grabbing every pair and stuffing them into your many bags. You grab the hat rack that used to sit in your childhood bedroom and start dragging it toward the door. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to call the police if you don’t stop,” Beth says. You do stop– just long enough to walk back to her and take the paperback murder mystery out of her hands, which still has your library info as the last check-out glued inside the cover. 

“See?” You laugh bitterly, pointing at it. “Me!”

The nest of stuff has swelled around you, trailing behind you like the tail of a huge worm. 

Beth is already calling 911. You move very slowly toward the door, exerting tremendous effort to lug all of your precious memories toward the glass pane between you and the outside. You tell yourself that you can already feel the feelings coming back to you– all those other versions of yourself, just by proximity, are waking up again inside of you. The young woman who believed she was going to be something different, the child who was happy in the rain, the future artist before the future evaporated– all of them are coming back now. 

You don’t fit through the door. Beth is talking fast to the operator. In a small town like this, they’ll be here soon. Breathing heavy, you back up and slam into the open door frame, wedging yourself firmly inside. The little mermaid sunglasses shatter. Something crunches. You grunt and scream, pushing with all your might. Something rips. Something scrapes. 

“She’s trying to take everything,” Beth explains hurriedly. “You will? That’s great. As fast as you can.”

You have one last hail mary– you leap forward, letting yourself– and everything you’re wearing– fall to the ground. The enormous mass of things around you crunch down around you, crushing the air out of your lungs, pinning you to the cement. But you’re out. You did it. You took it all back. It’s yours. Yours again. 

By the time the police arrive, you’re gone– lumbering up the freeway, backward through traffic, a massive snakey worm made of tangled fabric and papers and trinkets. The “you” that walked into the thrift store is only a tiny piece of what you are now– a YOU freed from the burden of forgetting. Cars swerve around you to avoid hitting you or any of the things dangling from your massive, hulking form. 

Where are you going? To be everything you meant to be. To fulfill every possible future. It’s not too late. Not now that you have all of it back. 

You march forward like time.